


Pale Imitation

by flashofthefuse



Series: Pale Imitation [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9894167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashofthefuse/pseuds/flashofthefuse
Summary: For the Queen of Angst on her birthday!Hope you have a fantastic day ❤️





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/gifts).



The man beside her slept soundly, but she was awake and restless.

Were they blue, or were they grey? It was sometimes hard to decide, but if she concentrated hard enough...

His eyes.

They were blue. Definitely blue. Stunningly so. But sometimes stormy, giving the illusion they were grey. When he let himself give in to his desire they’d been almost black. His pupils dilated and nearly obliterating the iris. She could see it as if she were still gazing into them, his fingers trailing softly along her throat. She could still feel the rush. No other touch had even been so thrilling.

His body.

Skin and bone. Muscle and sinew. Like any other, but like no other. The way he moved. Purposeful. Languid. Graceful. His broad shoulders. Trim waist. An unassuming but confident presence.

How often had she imagined them together? Her body entwined with his, his weight on her. Whenever she’d caught a glimpse of him in less than his usual armor it had left her wanting. Always wanting.

Wet from the surf, muscles gleaming.

Asleep in her bed.

It was a stolen moment, perhaps beneath her, but she didn’t regret it. His body was a work of art.

She continued her catalog.

His hands.

Those were clear in her mind, because she’d watched them. Often. Closely. The way he twisted his hat in them. The way they swallowed a teacup or delicate crystal champagne glass.

They were large and rugged. Elegant and beautiful. Wielding a gun with confidence. Skipping over the keys of the piano in her parlor.

Her own hand in his felt small and safe and settled. Home. His hands were home. On the small of her back, around her waist or, that glorious moment, wrapped around her head, pulling her close.

No other lips had ever brought that feeling. Complete abandon.

Joy.

Love.

She breathed deeply.

In.

Out.

This was agony, but she couldn’t stop. She had to keep going until she had the whole of him in her mind’s eye.

Where was she?

Eyes. Body. Hands.

His face.

This was often the hardest part. Not because she couldn’t remember, but because it was still so very clear. The line of his jaw. The set of his cheekbones. The endless tiny expressions that said so much. A minuscule curve of his lips, a tilt of his head. The lines around his eyes when he smiled, the slightly upturned nose.

She saw that face everywhere and nowhere. Pale imitations, haunting her wherever she went.

She’d taken off as soon as she’d gotten word. Unable to sit with it. To have to be herself among people who knew her. It was better to be anonymous. At least until it faded, but it was going on a year now. She’d tried and tried, but couldn’t outrun his memory.

She couldn’t because she didn’t really want to, hence this near nightly, torturous routine.

His face. Had she thought that the hardest part? She was fooling herself. The hardest part was yet to come. But she had to draw it forth.

His voice.

_Miss Fisher. Phryne. Not always. Would you like me to improve on it?_

More than anything.

Still.

Forever.

A small, anguished sound escaped her throat. Her bed partner stirred, his hand reaching out and settling on her hip. She waited a moment until his breathing returned to its deep, settled rhythm and shifted it off of her, gently, so as not to disturb him again.

Why did she do this to herself? She wondered.

He certainly wouldn’t begrudge it. In fact he’d probably think she should do it more often. He’d want her to be happy, but it was few and far between these days, because it didn’t make her happy.

It was rarely satisfying, but every once in awhile she still needed the touch of a man. The feel of hands on her skin, even if they were, and would always be, the wrong hands. Inadequate hands.

She wished she could hate him for that. For taking that from her. She could so rarely lose herself in the sensual pleasure of fucking anymore. Most of the time it only served to remind her of what she’d almost had.

It came over her then in a rush, and she fled the bed into the bath, making it just in time to retch her guts into the toilet. When she was done, she fell back against the wall. The tiles cold against her naked skin. She hugged her knees to her chest and quietly cried.

If not for the man in the next room she might have wailed, but that would be self-indulgent. After a few minutes she calmed herself and stood to rinse her face in the sink.

She studied her reflection in the mirror. She hardly recognized herself these days. Could barely remember the woman she had been.

Would he?

She’d never know.

She crept back into the bedroom, gathered up her things. She pulled her trousers on and her silk blouse. The undergarments she balled up, and stuffed into her bag. She waited until she was in the hall to put on her shoes, and slipped away into the night. It was time to move on. Again. As long as she kept moving, didn’t go home, it wasn’t really true.


	2. Chapter 2

The sun was just rising as she posted the letters. Just a few words to let them know she was alright. She always waited until she was leaving a place before posting and she never let on where she was headed. She rarely knew anyway, and she didn’t want to risk a return letter finding her. It was unfair, not letting her friends be in touch, but the thought that life in Melbourne went on as usual was too hard to imagine and she didn’t want to be burdened with the reality of it.

She’d send a wire later, when the banks opened, authorizing the monthly allowance for the household. She should probably give it up, the house, but just like his memory, she was unable to let it go.

She found a small cafe, just opening its doors and sat down at a table by the street, hoping a cup of strong, hot coffee would revive her flagging spirit. She pulled out a map to help her decide on the next destination. As always, she was drawn to the worn envelope written in his hand that lay at the bottom of her bag. The last letter he’d sent, with the details of his travel plans.

Inside, she’d tucked the news clipping. It was a small story. Just a few column inches that only appeared in the London papers because the explosion had occurred at a factory owned by an English ex-patriot.

> _Three officers of the Victoria Constabulary were killed, and two wounded this morning, in a daring attempt that saved the lives of five factory workers being held hostage._
> 
> _Mr. Claude Barrow, a former employee of the factory, who felt he had been unfairly dismissed, had taken the hostages and was threatening to kill them._
> 
> _After negotiations failed, a team of officers, led by Inspector Jack Robinson of City South, attempted the rescue, managing to free the hostages before Mr. Barrow ignited his homemade explosive._

She knew it by heart. There was no point in reading the rest. Instead, she read his letter again. When she got to the close, she lifted it to her lips and kissed the words he'd written.

> _"Until we’re together again, and forever thereafter, all my love, Jack"_

Not surprisingly, as soon as she lifted her head, she saw him. It often happened like that. A face in the crowd that caught her eye because it bore a similarity and he was on her mind. The illusion only held for a second. 

She looked away and pulled some coins from her bag to pay her bill. One slipped from her hand to the ground. As she bent to pick it up, her eyes fell on a pair of worn, brown brogues.

She stood slowly. Long, lean legs. Trim waist. Broad shoulders. Blue eyes.

Stunningly blue.

“When you asked me to come after you, I didn’t expect I’d have to chase you half way around the world.”

The earth spun and went black.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack's side of things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some that felt this story wasn't quite finished and apparently I agree, because it wouldn't leave me alone. Of course, no obligation to read further if you're satisfied with the original ending.

Jack cradled Phryne in his lap, fanning her face with his fedora. He very much regretted his glib greeting.

In his defense, he’d never imagined such a reaction.

Months earlier

Jack was extremely disappointed and, in all honesty, angry when he arrived in London and found her gone. After speaking with her father, those feelings gave way to confusion and concern. Her father said she thought him dead. Killed in the line of duty on the Melbourne streets.

Jack hardly knew what to think of that. It didn’t help that the Baron was notoriously unreliable. It even occurred to Jack that he might be trying to cover for his daughter. That Phryne had simply changed her mind and gone on her way.

He dismissed that idea almost immediately. They’d come too far for that and, besides, she was no coward. If she’d changed her mind, she’d tell him to his face, not leave it to her father to create some tall tale.

Then the Baron gave him the letters. His letters. Unopened, and his concern grew.

He refused her parent’s offer of hospitality and found a hotel to give himself time to think. All these months of being without her, exchanging letters and planning. Then, a long sea voyage, and now, just as he was on the brink of holding her in his arms, he found himself alone, in a small hotel room, in an unfamiliar country.

Under normal circumstances, being in London might have been exciting. He’d been so looking forward to seeing the city. They’d talked of visiting some of the countryside as well, and maybe Scotland or France.

They’d been leaving things open, planning to go wherever their whim took them, on whatever schedule they chose. He supposed he could travel on his own, but he knew he’d be wandering museums and viewing each vista seeing nothing. Wondering constantly where she was, with an ache in his heart that wouldn’t heal.

He was really only here to be with her. The rest of it didn’t matter and wouldn’t be remotely enjoyable without her. He was at a loss to know what to do next.

He assumed that by now she’d been in touch with someone back home and knew of her mistake, and yet, she’d not returned or sent word for him.

His over active mind came up with varied explanations for that, the worst of them being that she was having such a fine time somewhere, or with someone else, that she couldn’t be bothered to worry about him.

He thought of the swallow pin he’d returned to her and how fitting a symbol it might yet turn out to be. Swallow pairs breed for life, returning always to the same mate to produce offspring, but they didn’t remain together at all times. Extra-pair copulation is common among the species with unpaired males pursuing a paired female while her hapless mate was away or otherwise occupied.

He knew he was just feeling sorry for himself and letting his insecurity get the better of him. She wouldn’t have left without word. She would never truly be that callous, but the whole thing was infuriating, confusing, and utterly Phryne.

He sent a telegram to Mr. Butler in Melbourne to inquire after her. He was quite sure he’d receive one in return confirming that her friends knew her whereabouts, and that she was safe and enjoying her journeys. He’d await that confirmation and then decide whether to go after her, or to book passage back home for what was destined to be a depressing journey.

The answering telegram, which arrived promptly the next morning, set him off on a long chase. Using the money he’d set aside for his return ticket, he made his way to Paris, her first known stop.

From there it seemed she was traveling, without an agenda, along one of the Orient Express routes. He followed, guided by postmarks of letters and telegrams she sent home. It was maddeningly slow work, but he was afraid to anticipate her next move, worried he’d make a mistake and lose even more time having to double back. Months went by in a blur of hotel rooms and cities where he saw little more than a train station.

Zurich, Innsbruck, Vienna.

He carried with him a photo of Phryne. One of the ‘mug shots’ taken when, early in their acquaintance, he’d arrested her for breaking and entering. He’d showed it so many times now it had become horribly creased and tattered.

His detective skills, and her ability to draw attention even when she didn’t intend to, assisted him in his search. She was always remembered. _‘Delightful woman, so sorry to have seen her go,’_  the innkeepers would tell him, or he'd hear  _‘A lovely and generous lady, but so sad.’_

When he reached Budapest, he’d had to hole up, awaiting word from Melbourne. The routes diverged at that point, and he couldn’t know if she’d gone on to Belgrade or Bucharest. The wait set him back at least a week.

There was also the concern that he’d run out of money. He had to move fast and at times take whatever ticket was available. Too often that meant dishing out fare for first class.

Apparently, anticipating this complication, Mr. Butler wired a hefty sum that allowed him to continue just when he’d begun to despair. Jack was careful with the money, wanting to make it last. He always purchased the lowest fare he could and stayed in inexpensive hotels, even while searching the finest ones in every city.

While he journeyed, he began a correspondence with Dr. MacMillan. She not only knew Phryne better than just about anyone else, but she was level headed and logical. If his endeavor ever became a fool’s errand, she’d be the first to know, and wouldn’t hesitate to tell him to give it up.

Until then, there was nothing to do but continue. It was disheartening work. There were flashes of hope, but plenty of frustration as well.

Once, he got off a train and, as was his habit, flashed her picture to all ticket agents at the station. He could hardly hide his excitement when he discovered that barely twenty four hours prior, she’d boarded a train from that very station. The agent had said she appeared in good health and was friendly enough. So pretty and cheerful that he easily remembered her and was quite sure of his information. Jack immediately bought a ticket to her destination, feeling more hopeful than he had in months.

That hope died when he got to the next city and could find no trace of her. He wrote Mac then, pouring out his frustrations. He expressed a thought that it was all a waste of time. He’d stretched his leave to the end of its limits and it all seemed futile.

Even if she had fled London in a state of grief, surely it had lifted by now. She was the strongest person he knew. He imagined her amused expression should he manage to find her, her astonishment, or worse irritation, at the thought that she’d been in need of rescue.

A terse telegram arrived in response to that letter.

 

> DON'T DARE RETURN ALONE

And so he’d continued, remaining exasperatingly and familiarly, one step behind.

Until this morning. When he finally found himself holding her in his arms, just not exactly the way he’d long hoped.

A concerned waiter approached the table.

“Sir? The miss, she is unwell?”

“Most likely it’s the heat,” Jack posited, though it wasn’t unreasonably warm. No worse than a Melbourne summer day. “Perhaps you could bring some water,” he glanced down at the empty coffee cup, “and some bread, please.”

He continued fanning her face, worry written all over his features.


	4. Chapter 4

A voice penetrated the haze in Phryne's head. Unsure of where she was, she felt blindly for the surface on which her cheek rested. It was warm against her skin.

Then the scent hit her. The stale odor of train travel with something else just under the surface, engaging her senses. Faint spice. A hint of sandalwood.

“Jack.”

Her eyes blinked open and she repeated, this time a question, “Jack?”

Her hands come up, closing the lapels of his jacket tightly in their grip, her eyes searching his face in disbelief.

“Yes,” Jack replied, setting his hat down on the table and shifting her in his arms. “It’s me. Can you sit up on your own?”

“How?”

“In a chair?”

“No. How are you here? You’re dead.”

She straightened but didn’t leave his lap. She ran her hands over him, smoothing the lapels she’d crushed, feeling the solid mass of his chest, the round his shoulders, urging the rest of her senses to catch up with her eyes.

“Clearly not,” he said, “and where on earth did you get that idea?”

She just blinked at him, as though she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. In his eyes she saw a flash of pain and deep concern.

“Phryne, love, why did you think I was dead?” he repeated, quietly, his hand soothing her back reassuringly.

That voice, the one that sounded in her head and wouldn’t be forgotten, reached through the fog and convinced her that he was real. That he was here. She dug into her bag and pulled out the tattered clipping, handing it over. He scanned it quickly and tossed it onto the table in a huff.

“Well. This is just. Wildly inaccurate. Utter rubbish. Is this typical of British journalism?”

His lips twisted in irritation and she thought she might cry with happiness. She reached up and placed her hands along either side of his face, holding it still for her to study. The eyes were just as blue as she remembered and full of love and concern.

He held very still, watching her carefully, his eyes locked on hers. She brushed her thumb lightly over his lips and his eyes fluttered shut, his breath hitched and his body swayed toward hers.

The server returned, setting a plate and glass of water on the table, averting his eyes from the couple so clearly caught up in each other—rather inappropriately for such a public venue.

Jack cleared his throat.

“I think you should probably get off my lap,” he whispered.

She nodded absently, and slid over to the adjacent chair, keeping her hand stretched out on the table between them so that some part of her would remain close to him.

“Why didn’t you come home?” He asked.

“What was the point? You were gone,” she said.

“Oh, sweetheart. No,” he said, covering her hand with his own.

Her statement and her haunted eyes had confirmed for Jack what Mac had been saying in her correspondence with him. That Phryne was devastated and lost. As hard as that had been for him to imagine, a small, selfish part of him had wanted Mac to be right about the extent of her grief.

Looking at her now he no longer wished for that. Words she’d once said came back to him. Something about love being able to make even the toughest man come undone.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and was suddenly enraged on her behalf. If he ever came across whoever had written that horribly exaggerated account of his demise, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

“Listen to me Phryne. The only one that died that day was Barrow. That story got almost everything wrong. Three of us went in after the hostages. We were still inside when the explosive went off, but Hugh and I were away from the blast radius. We had to go back for Sergeant Ashley. He was wounded and trapped by falling debris. It took time to free him. In that time there was confusion and it was briefly feared we’d been killed.”

“But, you weren’t?”

“Are you still questioning that? I’m right here, Phryne.” His thumb rubbed firmly across the back of her hand as if to punctuate his point.

“And Hugh?”

“He’s fine. Better than fine. They’re expecting, you know. No, I suppose you don’t know.”

“How long have you been looking for me?”

“I left Melbourne the day after that incident. I had posted letters to you from each port of call. When I arrived in London, you’d gone and your father told me you thought I was dead. He said he’d tried to find you when my letters kept coming to the house, but they had no idea where you were. They’re worried sick, by the way.”

“Oh, god. Dot. I must have upset her with my condolences on her loss.”

“Perhaps briefly, but mostly everyone is just worried about you. We’ll send word to them that I’ve found you, but eat now,” he said, pushing the plate toward her.

She hadn’t touched the food or water in front of her. In fact, her eyes hadn’t left his face.

“I’m sorry to stare,” she said, giving his hand a squeeze. “This is surreal.”

It occurred to her that this was why she hadn’t been able to let him go. Somewhere deep inside she must have known it wasn’t true. Must have known he wasn’t gone, but out there somewhere, still on this earth.

He’d been calling to her. In her dreams and her waking hours. Trying to tell her that he was alive and looking for her. If only she’d slowed down enough to listen.

“I shouldn’t have believed it,” she said.

“No. You should have known nothing was going to keep me from you once you’d told me you wanted me. Not even a mad man with a bomb.”

She smiled at him. It was dazzling and in that moment he saw the woman he loved returning. It made his heart and his confidence soar. She was still the same, and now he knew, more than he’d ever dared to dream, that she loved him.

“You should have stayed put and waited for me, Phryne,” he scolded, playfully, “because honestly, this is not the way I wanted to tour the world. Must you make everything so difficult?”

“I do hate to be predictable,” she said, with a familiar gleam in her eye.

“You are anything but that, but you're worth the trouble. I was once told, by a very wise woman, that nothing that matters is easy,” he said, smiling back at her, a matching gleam in his eye. He drank her in, studying every familiar feature and few unfamiliar ones.

“You’ve let your hair grow,” he said.

She touched the ends of her locks, which now reached her shoulders. Not exactly in keeping with the fashion of the day, but she hadn’t really cared about that lately.

His was longer too. The curls he usually tried to tame springing free and wild in the heat and humidity. Never one to let himself be too unkempt he’d clearly found some way to shave, because his cheek, when she’d touched it, was smooth.

He picked her hand up off the table, holding it in both of his.

“I’ve been searching from the day I reached London,” he said, softly. “You’ve no idea how many times I’ve accosted some poor women from behind only to be disappointed when she turned around.”

She counted back in her head as she looked him over closely. He looked wonderful, but perhaps spread a bit thin, and tired. He must have been on the move often to have kept up with her.

“Oh, Jack,” she said, a thought suddenly occurring. “Your position!”

“May not be waiting for me when I get back.” He finished the thought for her, then shook his head at her dismayed expression. “It doesn’t matter now. We’re together. Are we going back, Phryne?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’re not going home, neither am I. Unless you want me to. But I hope you don’t want me to. I didn’t come all this way just to say hello.”

He leaned across and kissed her. Gently, but thoroughly, not caring one wit whether it was appropriate or not. Her lips were soft and warm and as wonderful as he remembered them to be.

When he pulled away, her eyes remained shut for a long moment as a small, happy smile played on her lips.

“Well, how did you then?” She said.

He tilted his head at the non-sequitur. Perhaps she wasn’t as recovered as he thought.

“You said this wasn’t how you wanted to tour the world. How did you?” she clarified.

“There’s only one way I want to see the world, and that’s by your side,” he said.

“Good. Because I don’t intend to let you out of my sight for a good long while, Jack Robinson.”

The promise in her voice stirred his blood.

“Are you going to eat, or should we find some place for you to rest until you’ve recovered further?”

His voice was husky and low. His eyes were deep, blue pools and she wanted to swim in them.

“I’ve already let go my room,” she said, dismayed. “Where are you staying?”

“I just got off a train. Rode all night.”

“I see,” she said, as they absorbed the disappointing news that they had nowhere to go to be alone, something they were each needing with increasing urgency.

“Well then,” she said, in a clipped and cheerful tone, “come along, darling. We both are in need of rest and recovery and I know a lovely hotel not more than a couple of blocks from here. It will suit our needs nicely.”

He stood and offered her his arm, which she happily took, steering him in the right direction.

“I think it might be more convenient if we register under one name,” she said, conversationally, as they walked down the street, hoping he wouldn't put up any resistance.

“Shall we be Mr. and Mrs. Fisher?” he suggested. It only seemed fair to use her name, he'd been traveling on her dime for some time now.

She smiled at his quick acceptance, but frowned at his choice.

“No. I don’t like that. Too reminiscent of my parents,” she shuddered. “We’ll use Fisher-Robinson. It has the ring of one of those old, upper crust British family names like, Harrington-Bowles or Stopford-Sacksville.”

“In that case, how about Robinson-Fisher? I believe in the German tradition the man’s name comes first.”

“We’re not German, Jack. Don’t push your luck.”

“Fisher-Robinson it is,” he said, pulling his arm in to bring her closer. She moved nearer and they fell into step with one another.

“Phryne Fisher-Robinson. It flows off the tongue surprisingly well, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes it does.”

“Hurry up, Jack,” she said, increasing their pace. “It’s just around the corner.”

Fifteen minutes later, arrangements made for Phryne’s trunks to be retrieved from the train station and delivered to their door, Jack and Phryne Fisher-Robinson walked confidently into a well-appointed suite. Phryne crossed the room, removing her hat and dropping it on the settee.

She turned to watch Jack tip the bellman and see him out the door. She still felt a bit like she was in a dream. Was he was real or a figment of her grieving mind? He turned to face her.

This was the test. In her dreams he often did un-Jack-like things. Smiling too broadly, laughing too loudly, seducing her too confidently. All things she longed for him to do, things she knew he had in him, but she had yet to experience.

Now he stood, a bit sheepishly, twirling his hat in his hands and glancing from her eyes to the floor, rocking back on the heels of his shoes. The flash of bravado she’d seen in the cafe was gone, a more familiar reticence taking its place.

Finally he met her eyes and held. His head tilted slightly to the left and the corner of his mouth twitched up.

“Well, Miss Fisher—”

She flew across the room, giving him just enough time to toss his hat aside and open his arms to catch her.


End file.
